


Alone now

by R_Salie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sorrow, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:55:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Salie/pseuds/R_Salie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is alone now. More than before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone now

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this little thing.

Days at the surgery where the same. No difference in them. Nothing separating Monday from Tuesday, Friday from Sunday. It’s all the same. It was the same day all over again. Waking up in the morning. The more permanent position. Sifts on a certain days. Walking to the tube. Walking from the tube. Rush hour traffic. Lives moving on around me. I just stand there in the middle.

It was like before I met him. It was like before I met him but worse. I couldn’t end it now.

I didn’t keep the gun anywhere near. I didn’t try to find a more suitable job. I had one which paid for the flat.

I could have left London but I didn’t.

I wasn’t the same man as I was before meeting him and even then I didn’t leave.

I couldn’t handle meeting Greg for a pint anymore. I couldn’t laugh with Sarah to our previous attempts on dating. Mrs Hudson was too sweet. I left Baker Street as soon as I could. The first week I was there. But the day after the funeral I left. It was the same type of bedsit from where I had left when I met Sherlock. It was temporal solution. Anonymity in quiet a building. Strangers that never talk in a lift. My stupid leg was in pain again. Stares were giving me trouble. I knew it was all in my head and that just made it worse. Even my fucking limp was missing him.

It wasn’t fair. He had been my best friend. More than that. I felt responsible. I let him stay at Bart’s. I called him machine.

He was anything but that.

I was the one. It was my mistake as well as everyone’s. I couldn’t say the right things, back at there, at the hospitals yard. I couldn’t keep him in the phone.

I couldn’t—Ella has told me to stop that, blaming myself. She keeps telling me I did everything could. But I do blame myself. I blame Donovan. I blame the papers. I blame everyone who didn’t, who doesn’t, believe in him.

I believe in him. I always did. I always will. He was amazing. Too brilliant.

I’m like a widower. I’m like that without decades of memories to fall back to.

I have seen death. Bruised and destroyed bodies. Horrible things. This was the thing I never wanted to see, no, never expected to see. Not him. Never him.

His skin had still been so warm on the pulseless wrist.

Everything else about it was still a blur. I couldn’t have seen the cyclist.

I hate this. Sobbing without tears.

Nothing helps. And I’m not sure do I want anything to help it.

I’m alone now.

And it’s worse than before. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this little thing. I can't say I hope that you enjoyed, that would be the wrong word in this context. But please, leave a comment if you feel like it. I'm still not quite sure that does this kind of writing style work in English.


End file.
